The Mask: Science of Violence
by BiscuitDude
Summary: Based on the popular Dark Horse comic book series. A shipment of GrepCo Toys' latest Tiki Town merchandise is inadvertently directed and falls into the hands of one of the post office sorting clerks. However, Roxanne Travellyan doesn't quite realise just what she's come into possession of.
1. Chapter 1

Lightning cracks and thunderous booms echoed around the lone FedEs aircraft braving the Atlantic storm. It came out of nowhere, spawning from utter darkness with no warning. This did not faze the pilots; they were used to the odd unexpected and adverse weather. Not once had either encountered such a ferocious flurry of crackling destruction like it. Jokingly, they mocked the suspect forecaster for their misfortune.

Within the cargo hold sat the perpetrator, or as some tribal accusations would believe. Even though it had a mouth, it never spoke. It had eyes, frozen in a blank expression – red like the pits of hell. It brought chaos wherever it went. Even the strongest fell foul to its alluring emerald exterior.

This was not a creature of God's creation or a weapon. It was a mask, an unassuming jade mask. If the pilots didn't land soon, it too would claim its next victims. The storm lashed out at the plane, striking whips of judgement lightning. Strong winds encouraged the craft to deviate from its current trajectory, but the pilots remained in control.

Peril wrought hours passed and the craft landed at Bristol Airport in the early hours. Even on the ground, lightning strikes could be seen in the darkened sky. A welcoming committee of local mail couriers arrived to collect the incoming payload, ready to ship them off to their next flights or further inland.

Intervention prevented one particular package from reaching its intended destination. One baggage attendant, very lackadaisical in his trade, lobbed the package onto the conveyer belt. Like some otherworld force compelled it to break the mould, it bounced and jostled one parcel aside, taking its place.

Nobody took any notice of the mishap. At such early hours of the morning they wanted nothing more than to return to their cribs and doze off. Some had already done so; the mistake might have been noticed sooner otherwise. The package, and its mysterious contents, made its way onto the next truck heading through the rural south-west of England.

An alarm blared, and a sharp snort escaped Roxanne's nose as she awoke. Resistant groans followed and she slammed her hand over the nuisance beeper. Barely eight minutes passed when the alarm went again. And again she groaned and slammed the clock, more aggressively this time.

"Agh," she moaned, hoisting her body from under the sheets. It was barely morning; the sun hadn't even crept through the blinds yet. Roxanne yawned and stretched her arms out as she prepared herself for another day. The untended carpet between her toes stood sharply upwards, prickling the soles of her feet as she walked. First port of call for the day was the bathroom. The lone light over the mirror flickered several times before it pulsed indefinitely. Roxanne yawned again as she examined the bags of her eyes.

_Nothing a little bit of makeup won't fix, _she thought. There was no need to be waxing it on like a harlot. Roxanne was modest. Shame the same rules did not apply to her haircut. Messy brunette and red highlights – or red head with brunette roots – were always her thing. It was a mistake in the first place. Just a silly prank where she decided to put red paint in her hair during primary school art class. Now every morning she was making sure the tone and saturation was just right. She at least realised that dye was the answer, not paint. That was one tick off her list of things to get right in her minimal existence. Hair dye was the simplest; everything else was more of a chore to Roxanne than reward. A worthwhile job, even a career was much more important.

Working as a sorting office clerk was hardly aspiring, but it at least helped keep a roof over her head.

Other artefacts of her past exploits and ambitions littered her otherwise dreary apartment. A guitar lay over the sofa. Doodles of various abstract images littered her computer desk. Somewhere on the hard drive were her failed attempts at freelancing, or writing a novel. Roxanne had tried different prospects. Yet each time, they led to a dead end. She'd either given up, or was told otherwise.

At least Roxanne's compulsive hoarding remained consistent. Collections of various trinkets and nick-knacks decorated her apartment, neatly hung, stowed away, or piled in a corner of one room. Some of it worthwhile pendants, the rest was just worthless junk. It was all valuable to Roxanne, despite her friend's and family's protests.

Roxanne fixed herself a simple breakfast; strawberry jam on toast, and a coffee. All she needed to kick-start a day. An extra eight minutes in bed and she was falling behind – any longer and she would be late to the office. Always allowing herself just enough time was Roxanne's style. She jammed the last grains of toast into her gob, on the cusp of choking, and quickly adjusted her red tinted brown hair as she strolled out the door. For a moment she forgot to lock the door, but remembered before she dashed off. Even on her way to office, she kept recounting in her mind whether or not she locked the door. Of course she did. But she remained anxious all day, every day until she returned home.

Roxanne lived out in the country, a few miles from nearby Bristol, so she had to take the car her parents bought for her twenty-sixth birthday – a '75 Mustang.

The rural location was quiet and peaceful enough, but she really wanted to live in the city, closer to her friends. A minimum wage job was not going to get her that. Even her parents would not help her out with all their money.

They did agree to pay part of her rent until Roxanne could get a better job. But each time the promise was made, Roxanne did not follow it through. Now she was stuck in the mire going nowhere. She hoped her expanses into new territories would be the answer. They were not. Instead they just made Roxanne ask more questions about what she wanted to achieve. She wasn't sure anymore.

An eerie Friday morning mist glazed the roads. The amber headlights did little to pierce the flowing veil. Not that it matter much. Roxanne had the route ingrained in her head. She admired the visage of the cloud white wisps dancing over the ground ahead. As if she was in a constant dream, or driving through a ghost town. She imagined she was the only person in town – or the world. Goosebumps crawled up her skin. But she came crashing back to reality as she pulled into the car park of the mailing office. She allowed the vehicle to idle for a moment, listening to the radio DJ finish his record.

When Roxanne finally clocked in for her shift at five-forty-eight-ish, she was quickly intercepted by her friend, Liz.

"Roxy! Dylan'll have your skin if he catches you." Early mornings had not done wonders for Liz's complexion. The amount of creases under her eyelids made her appear older. Liz and Roxanne went to the same school together, both in the same year. Liz was actually a few months younger than Roxanne.

"Why? I'm not late." Roxanne had to glance at the clock to check. She knew that she was on time - early for once.

"He saw what you wrote in the staff room."

Roxanne reminisced and chuckled slightly. "Oh, come on, can't anybody have a chuckle in this place?" She had become frustrated by her colleagues lack of tidiness in the staff room – ironically so – that she wrote: 'Your mother does not work here.' In big bold letters across the fridge door. Apparently that is offensive enough to warrant an ear-bashing from her supervisor, Dylan. "I'm gonna go insane if I stay here much longer." The pair acquired their bags for sorting, ready for the day's tasks.

"So you said last week, and the week before that. When are you actually moving on? You've been talking about quitting for months."

Roxanne sighed heavily. "I'm still working on it."

"Right. I thought you wanted to be a writer?"

"Musician," Roxanne replied as she started sorting the envelopes and packages coming through.

Liz laughed, unsurprised by her friend's response. "It's always something new with you. Can't you just pick one thing and stick at it?"

"You mean like I am now."

Liz cracked a smile. "It certainly seems that way, Rox. But if not then what?" Roxanne couldn't think of an answer. She had become content enough with her job that she did not outright leave. But she would be lying to herself if she said 'Yes. I am happy with my job.' Despite recent pursuits, she was expecting the world around to change for her benefit. She had given up on trying.

"Wish I knew. There must be something I'm good at."

"You'll find out eventually, I'm sure." Liz's reassuring smile generated a subtle tweak of Roxanne's lips.

"Do you…ever think of doing anything else, Liz? I don't want to think that you're here just because I am."

"Nah, no. This job is all I need, gives Pete a chance to look after the young 'un while I work." Liz married her long term boyfriend, Peter Lynch, a few years back and had a kid. Roxanne always admired their relationship; she was even a tad jealous. It wasn't that she liked Pete, far from it. It was because they were family. And, while they were not making millions, they could sustain raising a family. Roxanne had a deep, hidden yearning for a family. Yet she did nothing to chase it. Just like everything else, it was an idea for the slag heap.

"It shows," Roxanne replied, "You _really_ need to do something about those eyes, Manson."

The conversation dragged as did the day. They didn't realise the sun had come up until they took a brief cigarette break. The mist had vanished, only the clouds from their tobacco sticks filled the air, burning their throat and stinging the nostrils. Roxanne's co-workers shot her several hateful glances, silently discussing in their little cult. She couldn't make out their discussion, but she didn't care. She just imagined their heads were seven feet into the concrete.

After their smoke break, Roxanne was assigned a separate section to Liz. A series of packages delivered from overseas arrived and Roxanne was tasked with sorting them. She was left alone, since the bulk of the staff had not clocked in yet. Either that or most of the staff had called in sick, or were avoiding her. At least, that is what her paranoia said.

After organising much of the payload, Roxanne came across an unmarked package. She examined every corner of it for an address to sort it, but there was nothing. The edges were worn from travel and the cardboard was saturated with moisture. With no idea on where to organise it, Roxanne went to put the box aside when she heard the side rip. A clunk rang around the room as something solid hit the ground. Roxanne looked down where an object had fallen out. A broken face was now staring at her from the ground – jade tinted shell and bloodshot eyes.

Roxanne leant down to pick it up. Scraps of green material pieced together formed the face. It stared into her eyes. She was entranced by the alluring trinket, like a magpie. Roxanne had an idea what she was holding. Since hearing the stories she had to have it.

_Where were you going?_ Roxanne asked herself. Without a proper address she had no idea where it was going. Flipping it over, she saw the white marker – 'Prototype #5' – etched within the concave of the mask. Her eyes became drawn to the eye sockets, surprisingly clear, considering the red tint on the exterior. Roxanne had to flip the mask to make sure she wasn't imagining things.

_Red on the outside, but clear on the inside?_

She admired the illusion and felt strong compulsions. She wanted to wear it. To try it on, see the world through the eyes of the mask. She pulled it closer, heart steadily pumping to the rhythm of a drum. The mask would easily cover her face, with plenty of excess. Feeling the soft touch of her own breath against the hollowed item, inch by inch, Roxanne drew closer. Distant sounds and machinery slapped her back into reality.

Footsteps approached; Roxanne dropped the mask into her bag and dumped the rotted packaging. It was just the next batch of parcels being wheeled down.

"Next batch," the guy called as he wheeled to trolley to Roxanne's feet. He looked up as Roxanne tried acting innocent. "You okay, uh-" he struggled.

"Roxy."

"Roxy. Roxy. You look a little flushed. Not coming down with something are ya?"

"Nah, no, uh, nothing like that. Just caught me by surprise a little."

"Okay." He nodded. "Beware the ghosts, Roxy. Beware!" He joked as he walked away, his voice echoing down the halls for miles. Roxanne remembered him, Tyrone. He'd been working at the office for years - one of the longest servers. Seeing so many people come and go, no wonder he could not remember Roxanne. It had been only five years. _Of course_ he would not remember her.

Roxanne managed to continue her duties, but every time she emptied her bag, she caught a glimpse of that mask staring back at her.

Sometimes, she thought she heard people talking, even when she was alone. Someone was calling her name.

_Roxanne_.

"Hello?" she would call out. But each time there was no response. The first few times she thought Tyrone was playing his senile tricks again. But it was not. Even when she heard it next with Liz, she accused her.

"You're not supposed to go stir crazy until you've been here at least ten years," Liz joked. Roxanne was relieved when the clock ticked over to her break. It gave her the chance to drink some office coffee and gossip with her co-workers. The message she wrote was still there on the fridge for all to see. What Roxanne had though, was for Liz's eyes and ears only, for now.

"Hey, Liz," she said, getting as close as possible, away from the ears of the male contingent. "Look what I found."

Liz sighed, her eyes drooping with disappointment, "Don't tell me you've stolen another package again. I can't keep covering for you."

"It would've been no good, the label was worn-"

"Doesn't matter," Liz coughed behind a cup of coffee.

"Look, just look at this." Roxanne pulled the mask from the bottom of her pack.

"I see a resemblance," Liz said dryly.

Roxanne ignored her and pressed. "Come on, you know what this is?"

Liz shrugged. "Half price Tesco Halloween mask?"

"Er, not far off." Roxanne surveyed around again to see if anybody was eavesdropping. "Have you heard of Grepco Toys' Tiki Town?" Liz became suddenly uninterested and sighed frustratingly. "No-no, just listen-"

"This is another one of your kleptomaniac moments, isn't it?"

Roxanne continued regardless. "Tiki Town is a new craze coming out of New York. I read on the net that Aldo Krasker, who created the franchise, died before he could finish. But not before parting with these sweet looking, prototype masks that I _must_ have one for my collection. Now I finally can."

"Congrats. And I'm sure it'll look better on your shelf rather than your face."

Roxanne feigned a sarcastic laugh and placed the mask safely with her belongings. "In a few years that mask could be worth millions." The staff room door suddenly flew open. A lean man with a small tuft of orange hair stood staring at Roxanne.

_Dylan. Shit._

"Miss Travellyan," he said sternly across the bodies of workers. Roxanne knew he was serious. He used her surname. Otherwise he would've just said 'Roxy' or 'Roxanne' for casual banter. He stared at her handiwork on the fridge.

"Defacing company property is a disciplinary offense."

"And defacing the staff room isn't?" Roxanne retorted, looking at her colleagues expectantly. They all stared back at her for a moment before turning away. Roxanne imagined the kind of disgusted faces they were pulling out of her sight. Or what they were plotting to get their own back. "I prefer a tidy staff room, not a pig sty. Else, I'll go roll in a ditch."

"That is true, but that doesn't mean you can express yourself over company property. You could've easily discussed it with me."

_No point, you don't fucking listen._ She thought, or even wanted to say. As proud as she would be by admitting it openly she knew what would happen if she did: A drawn out process with Dylan, her supervisor, in a boxy room explaining what she did, why and what would happen next. Previously it was just a piece of paper and slap-on-the-wrist outcome. How much more would Dylan put up with her?

If he knew what was in the locker behind her, then that would not be much longer.

_Kill him already!_ Roxanne looked behind her briefly, as if she knew where the voice was coming from now. Dylan watched her closely.

"Do you understand?" he asked again. Roxanne didn't even realise he had asked the question already. She was absorbed in her own imagination. So she had to grunt.

"Do. You. Understand?" he repeated for the third time.

"Perfectly," she replied unconvincingly.

Dylan glanced around for a moment, clocking everyone that witnessed the conversation. "Good," he said calmly. "So you can start cleaning up your mess."

Roxanne felt like whacking that guy's head into the fridge. She suppressed those feelings by letting out a frustrated groan. It wasn't until Roxanne walked out of the room that the sniggering started. Liz didn't appreciate her colleagues mocking Roxanne so. She too felt like pounding a few of them, or talking them to death about principle.

"You assholes are the reason for this," Liz said to the group, gesturing towards the graffiti.

Fortunately, once Roxanne returned with industrial cleaning materials, the herd had thinned. Liz hung about.

"Look, don't worry about Dylan."

"I'm not worried," Roxanne strained as she prepped her spray.

"I know that face," Liz replied. "You've got one of your 'Roxanne's Revenge' plans brewing. Right?" She knew of Roxy's revenge attempts: All talk, no substance. Except for one time in high school when she stubbed a cigarette on her ex's cheek. He never raised a hand against her again, but she got suspended for a few weeks.

"I'll be damned if I have to spend the rest of the day scrubbing this crap off."

"Did you not think to put it on paper and just tape it on? And, why of all things, did you have to use permanent marker?"

"I never was too bright," Roxanne groaned sarcastically, scrubbing the marks as hard as she could. The remaining colleagues watched on with amusement. Roxanne knew it was them that left the place in a tip anyway.

"Yeah, none too bright at all, Spitfire," one called out.

"You missed a spot, Spitfire," said another, purposely chucking a wrapper down on the ground.

"I hate that name," Roxanne grunted. She never quite knew where the nickname originated. Maybe it was because she always shot off her mouth at anything. Or maybe it's just because her hair was red like a flame. Or it was a combination of both.

"Could be worse," Liz assured, "How old are you guys again?"

"Eighteen, _mom_," one said. Eight years younger than both the girls. Liz wanted to smack the guy for his constant antagonising. She could see the anger boiling on Roxanne's face; it translated into her furious scrubbing. Gritted teeth and grunting made her sound like a lawnmower.

"Real mature, fellas. Pick it up," Liz demanded with folded arms. The guys didn't answer. Roxanne appeared and removed the rubbish. "Rox, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Roxanne shrugged. "I'm _fucking_ cleaning, ain't I?"

Liz glided over and whispered in her ear. "They'll keep this up if you just let them walk all over you."

"They're not worth my boot," Roxanne replied quietly, disposing of the wrapper.

"Sometimes they are worth it. You've got to get mad every now and then."

"I am mad!" Roxanne raised her voice sharply, alerting the Meerkats nearby. "But kicking dirt like them won't do me any good. I can't do without this job. You know that." She sneered at the group staring. "You fucks will get yours. Eventually. I guarantee it!"

"Oh no," one jested, "I'm so freaking-terrified."

"Well…when you're face is deep inside a concrete slab…we'll see who's laughing," Roxanne remarked with a twisted grin. "Buried alive, or seeing your intestines decorating the hallway." The group didn't flinch, but Liz could sense the uneasiness between them. Of course they did not like the sound of Roxanne's graphic scheme. Most of all, they were enjoying the spectacle and crazy-hair Spitfire shooting off her hollow threats.

Liz checked her watch: she was due back. "Sorry Rox. I'm back on shift now. I-I'll catch up with you later 'kay?" Roxanne didn't reply. She just shrugged her shoulders before returning to her scrubbing. Honestly, Liz was somewhat relieved that she didn't have to listen to Roxanne's ranting. But she did wonder how long it would be before she snapped. Liz truly hoped it was just Roxanne doing her usual thing. This time though, she was not so sure.


	2. Chapter 2

Roxanne was scrubbing marker off for an hour. In that time she quietly deflected the harassments from her co-workers and sat through another dull lecture from Dylan.

All the while, in her head, she was plotting revenge. Deviously devising imaginative and disgusting ways to torture her tormentors was a sadistic pass-time of hers. If they weren't so mean to her in the first place, she wouldn't have to be so disgusting.

Despite all her imaginative thinking however, she lacked nerve. Ultimately, her actions would have dire consequence that she simply could not afford. Not to mention any possible criminal convictions. Instead, she kept her motivations masked by a free-spirited façade.

At the end of her shift, she just wanted to laze on the sofa and drown herself with a fine spirit. She acquired her belongings; mask included and left the office. Her relatively calm mood was wrecked when she saw her car. Just like her shenanigan with the fridge, black marker was scrawled over the passenger side door and arches. Upon closer inspection, Roxanne realised that it was not pen. Running her fingers over the streaks stained them with black paint. Roxanne boiled and released a strained groan.

A hatchback rolled up to her. Down went the driver window and a familiar face poked out – no surprises – it was one of the staff room morons, grinning with triumph.

"Enjoy the new paintjob, spitfire!" he yelled and drove off with a vicious wheel spin. Roxanne screamed and threw her own bag towards the rapidly accelerating vehicle.

"Bastard!" she screamed. Roxanne took a moment to absorb her anger and frustration before slowly calming down. She looked at her car one more time before retrieving her strewn effects. Most of her lunch remnants were over the parking lot, yet the mask still was inside her pack. One of the eyes peeked out and stared at Roxanne; she hesitated and shook an uneasy feeling free.

Taking a deep breath, she ran her hand through her hair and prepared to go home. Among her belongings she also found a note reminding her to get a present for her mother. Six months abroad and Roxanne was surprised how much she missed her. Finally she was coming home. Her parent's relationship wasn't totally sour. David, her dad, had enough faith in her to go abroad and still come back with no funny business. The less she thought about her absence, the faster time travelled.

Roxanne gazed back at her bag, seeing the mask poking out from the zipper opening slightly.

"Roxy, please don't buy a cheap bottle of sparkly from a garage forecourt," David had said, not forgiving her for a previous incident where Roxanne had swiftly gotten a very last minute birthday present.

Her gaze returned to the mask again. Perhaps she could give her the mask. No. What was she thinking? Roxanne wanted it. It was hers and nobody else's.

Though, with the amount of junk Roxanne kept, she was sure to unearth something of interest for her returning mother. David was surely eager to see what ridiculous item Roxanne was going to come up with.

With the Mustang's engines roaring, Roxanne made her way home. All the way she was figuring what she kept among the stacks of rubbish that her mother would appreciate. Truthfully, she did not keep track of every little thing – that would be impossible and impractical. However, she reserved a special shelving unit for all her favourite pieces. The mask was going to join that illustrious club tonight: alongside a four-leaf-clover in a jar, an l-shaped fragment of supposed Norse iron and an old disused tank shell.

Nothing says "Welcome home, Mom!" like a disused world war two shell. Or she could just go down the dull approach and offer a five pound voucher in an envelope. That was too easy. And her dad would have her head. It had to be special. Her focus continuously drifted back to the mask. Like the fish on a hook, she could not escape it. Constantly it was drawing her intrigue. However her thoughts of offering it to her mother were instantly squashed when she fell back to reality.

_This is mine_, she thought to herself. After spending much of her afternoon trawling through the junk, and listening to a kind reminder left on her answer machine, Roxanne was no closer to finding a gift. With the evening fast approaching, she had little to no chance of grabbing a late gift from the local market. The stalls would be shut and she wasn't even sure there would be something worthwhile anyway.

Roxanne sighed heavily. "What am I going to do?" That wasn't the only issue on her mind. The paint left on her car was a concern and the anger towards those that caused it. Sheer frustration started to take its toll and Roxanne was fuming.

"For fuck sake!" she bellowed and strained, tensing her fingers like claws. "Hey mom, how about a paint-stained Mustang?" Also, she'd have to endure the lecture her parents were certain to have with her the next day.

A reckless swing of her arm knocked a mostly empty vodka bottle to the ground, it shattered in a small liquid explosion and crystals. Roxanne composed herself and opened a new vodka bottle as well as a combination of other liquors and some orange juice. Roxanne hastily mixed them and poured them into a small tumbler. A quick swig and the sweet alcoholic taste tickled her senses.

She took a seat on her big armchair and sunk into it, trying to relax. Leant against the chair was her discarded pack. Inside, Roxanne spied the mask within. She fished it out and stared at it.

"_Oh, it'll look better on your shelf rather than your face,_" she imitated Liz's comments disgusted. "Fucking bitch." Roxanne took a deeper swig and emptied the tumbler of its contents.

A sudden scratchy voice bellowed. "_Come on..._" Roxanne almost choked on her drink with surprise. Catching her breath, she kept the tumbler still in her hand. "_Let's cause some mayhem!_" Roxanne picked up the mask and stared into its bloody eyes. And it just stared back. Whatever power dwelled within was begging for release.


	3. Chapter 3

Roxanne wasn't sure what to feel. Within seconds her rage had vanished, and a mix of concern and intrigue emerged.

"Wha-?" she whispered. She swore that the mask was talking to her. That or she was just going insane. It was an object, not a being. It spoke, surely. Yet its mouth did not move. It couldn't – it was impossible. "I really must be losing it."

Roxanne was overtaken by doubt. There was no way she could converse with an inanimate object. Perhaps in an alternate reality, she'd ponder. Placing the tumbler down, the mask now had Roxanne's full attention. She had both hands placed around the full cheeks, her fingers hooked over the edges and into the concave.

Steadily she tilted the artefact, analysing every detail. Now that she had a quiet moment, without interruption, Roxanne could see that it was pieced together with shards of wood, skilfully crafted together to an uncanny smoothness. She half expected to feel the imperfections and roughness in the grain. Rubbing her thumbs along the surface, she felt the ever so slight spaces in between each piece.

Roxanne pulled one of her hands away only to run a finger down the nose and over the pouting lips. She wondered what kind of facial mould, if any, was used to forge the features. The long angular nose was as smooth as the rest and the beautiful lips. Was it the face of a man or a woman? That was impossible to determine – perhaps it was unisexual.

Clearly the manufacturer took great pride in his craft. However, Roxanne found it bizarre that a supposed mass-manufactured mask was so meticulously crafted.

The longer she stared at the mask, Roxanne felt a compelling eeriness. She was locked on it. A small part of her wanted to look away, but a much stronger pull kept her eyes locked on the mask. It was as if those big glass red eyes were hypnotising her. Shaking the feeling, she turned the mask over to see the inside. The pristine green was shadowed and once again she could see straight through the eye pieces. All of her intrigue was suddenly overtaken by an alien compulsion. As she stared in she instinctively and slowly brought it towards her face.

"Liz, you're so full of shit," Roxanne scoffed, feeling comfortable that she was just dreaming. She closed her eyes, the mask inches from her. "I'll show you."

As she felt the cool bark against her forehead a sudden rattling and scratching shocked her, forcing her eyes wide open. Blood red crimson contaminated her vision. A forceful smack made Roxanne yelp as her face was sucked into the mask. She forced a breath and took a deep intake, unaware that the mask's mouth opened with hers ever so slightly. Wood started to creep onto her lips, into her mouth, nostrils and under the eyelids.

Roxanne's face felt hot and burning as the wood melted unnaturally like hot rubber over her skin. Every contour of her face felt tight against the mask as it weaved and moulded to her features. It all happened so quickly that Roxanne didn't know how – or could not – react.

Then the mask's structure rapidly altered. From the edges, slinks of green snaked and slipped over Roxanne's head. Her hair was slicked back and sucked under the growing mass. Soon her ears were pressed tightly against her head by several hot lashes. The mask crushed her head with growing pulses. She unleashed a strained and painful groan behind gritted teeth. Green smoke started swirling around her, billowing from the gaps between her face and the mask.

If it weren't for the mask on her face, Roxanne would've believed her face was literally alight with flames. The heat and penetrating warmth was agonising. As if she had left her face to flirt with the tips of candle flames and then suddenly forced into a hot lava bath.

She was powerless to scream as the artefact expanded her eyes to exploding. Her teeth trembled and shook unnaturally as the mask applied its magic further. Even her cheeks were pulsing with pain as extra mass was forcibly pressed against her skin. Eventually, Roxanne managed to cry an agonised, otherworldly scream as her mouth opened fully. Her eyes burned with searing pain, she wanted to claw them out. She shook her head backwards and forwards trying to fight the pain and reactively tore at the whips wrapped around her skull.

The shock of the attack and the sheer ferocity prevented Roxanne from retaliating quickly, but she finally felt able to fight. Her mind became overwhelmed with only one thing: she had to get the mask off! All of the day's events paled away. Family didn't matter. Work didn't matter. All that mattered now was what was happening to her. She had no idea if she was going to survive. Each press, every pulse and writhing motion was agonising. Roxanne feared it would crush the blood from her head and out her eyes into a blob of broken skull, flesh and brain.

Vainly combatting the change, she managed to get to her feet and aggressively rip the tendrils from her head. She screamed as she tore her own wild hair along with the lively mask.

_Gotta get this off!_ She thought. Soon the smoke consumed her, swirling in varying degrees of green and purple. Her whole body tingled and surged with a growing power. Shocks and jolts, jerked her around irregularly. Yet Roxanne persisted, certain that there was some way of stopping this.

Her bones and muscles were overtaken by an unknown force originating from the mask. Pulsing lights shot from the cloud, highlighting Roxanne's writhing body within. Even her clothing was manipulated; rapidly broken down and reconstructed with bizarre patterns and shapes. The notches on her belt extended to spikes and her earrings, engulfed by the mask, sprouted from within and looped.

Teeth grew to the size of rocks, becoming uncomfortable in Roxanne's jaw, which felt like it jutted forward itself. Same happened to her cheeks; they became tight and pointed, emphasising strong green cheekbones. Still hopelessly tearing at the back of her skull, Roxanne released stifled groans, unaware of her hair shooting out from beneath the green rubber in hot pink streaks. All the while her nails quivered and grew, magically coating themselves with red varnish. Eventually the clouds subsided and Roxanne felt a slight reprieve. She collapsed to her knees and steadied her shaken body. Finally, she felt the ability to speak again. But something felt off.

"Hel-he-hel," she tried to plea. Quickly her pleas changed to low chuckle. Running her hand down her face, she felt the tight rubber of the once wooden mask. Her blank expression grew. Teeth were like tombstones within her jaw and her mouth was a giant chasm. Soon the chuckling erupted into a deafening cackle. There was an infectious sense of power within her, like she could do anything she wanted. It made her feel supreme.

"Ho, this feels great!" she proclaimed loudly with a deep gravelly voice. As the last cloud evaporated, Roxanne – or what was Roxanne – stood alone in the apartment, grinning fiendishly. Her face was dulled green, warped and contorted like some twisted cartoon character.

She could feel the power, she didn't want to spend time realising the potential. Roxanne just wanted to do.

"Roxanne," she gleamed, "you're gonna show them all what you're made of!" Wild and free, she madly knocked ricocheted around the room, knocking her furniture out of position before leaping out of the window. It was Friday night and she had a craving, an itch to scratch. Right now, Roxanne only knew one moron – or two – or three – who could oblige.


End file.
